Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
The Earth is a Woman Clearly, as muses of the past have told the tale, nature draws a man into her fold. No room for doubt to cloud the mind. Deep greens of summer leaves on the maples fade gently Continue reading The Earth is a Woman by Tom Conlan
Upon Finding a Letter folded in a book dusty and unread these forty-five years Brautigan sits below the Hollywood sign listens to music in yellowed newspaper print, the Free Press Kerouac wrote to his lover from Europe She should visit Continue reading Upon Finding a Letter by Tom Conlan